


Deliverance.

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Crime AU, Entirely canon divergent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Modern AU, Redemption, Swearing, Violence, but hey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-02-27 13:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13249077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: Hindsight is, Collins decides, an utterly useless bastard.It’s that taunting voice in the back of your head that knows so much better than you, that picks apart every decision you make and flays you alive for the wrong ones.(In which Collins, a struggling musician, and Farrier, a gangster whose heart isn't in the game anymore meet. And inevitably, fall head over heels in love)





	1. into the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this monster of an idea has been plaguing me for weeks. And after rewatching both Legend and Dunkirk on the same day, I've decided to make it a reality. Any clubs named in this are entirely fictitious, and if they share names with real places it is entirely coincidental. Please let me know what you think of this, I've got the next chapter in the works, but it'd be great to hear whether or not people actually like this!
> 
> Enjoy x

Hindsight is, Collins decides, an _utterly useless bastard_.

It’s that taunting voice in the back of your head that knows so much better than you, that picks apart every decision you make and flays you alive for the wrong ones. It throws what could have been in your face, shows you the _what ifs_ and _if onlys_ , while reminding you of the reality you find yourself in. Shows you the meagre little things you could have done to avoid the situation in which you find yourself.

With the benefit of hindsight, Collins realises that maybe he shouldn’t have moved to London so drastically, with barely a penny to his name, that he probably should have saved up a bit. With the benefit of hindsight Collins realises that his rent would have been so much easier to pay if only he’d tried to find a roommate to split it with. With the benefit of hindsight, Collins realises he wouldn’t have gotten fired from his temporary job in a nameless office if he hadn’t called his handsy co-worker an ugly prick. With the benefit of hindsight, Collins realises that he could have avoided this, if only he’d done a bit of research. He’d not be in the position he is in now, standing outside a shady London club, cigarette held in a hand shaking both from the cold and anxiety, debating whether to walk away, but knowing he can’t. Firstly, he needs the money. More importantly, however, he’s in neither the mood, nor the position to inconvenience London’s most powerful gangster.

The cigarette reaches its’ end, and Collins drops it, grinding it into the ground with the heel of his shoe, looking up again at the flickering sign that adorns the building’s entrance. _Heaven’s Backdoor_ , it’s called, and Collins finds that amusing as he pushes open the grimy doors and walks into an equally unpleasant, dark room. _Of course, the lair of the Devil would be signposted as a way into Heaven_. The room is filled mainly with depressed-looking men in rumpled suits, throwing back glass after glass of heavy liquor, running up tabs they’ll probably never be able to repay. Though, from the looks on their faces, that isn’t their biggest concern at the moment. The walls are lined with booths, and in one a group of suited men are assembled, speaking in hushed voices despite the loud music filling the humid air. If he were in any other place, he might find this intriguing, concerning even. But he’s in a bar owned by a gangster, there’s going to be at least one person carrying out some shady business. He’ll be fine if just avoids it entirely. He makes his way quickly through the room, navigating sticky tables and intimidating bar staff, and is nearing the fraying curtain that separates the meagre backstage space from the rest of the room when a stream of catcalls erupts from one of the booths closer to the stage.

He turns to follow the noise, and discovers a rowdy hen party sitting there, clearly already well-into their evening. Collins waves off their attempts to call him over to the table with an embarrassed smile and a ducked head, bolting through the curtain that obscures him from view. Backstage there’s little more than a desk and a chair, both clearly having seen better days, with stacked crates taking up the rest of the space. _No turning back now_ , an ominous voice in the back of his head taunts, he hushes it by taking a quick sip of whiskey from the flask stashed in his coat pocket, before hefting the guitar case onto the rickety desk, eyeing it carefully as it creaks loudly in protest. He busies himself with tuning his guitar, well aware of the burly security guard watching him through the thin veil that separates him from the rest of the room.

The blonde is embarrassingly startled when the curtain swings open, and a man steps through it, he’s trying to stutter out a cry for help when the man raises his hands in surrender, one of which contains a thick brown envelope. Collins gets a better look at the man, and recognises him as the one who had given him the gig in the first place. _First rule of employment: don’t kill your boss with a guitar._

“I know it’s rough ‘round here, but we ain’t _all_ out to get you,” the man says with a grin that tries too hard to be friendly. It reassures the blonde only marginally. He lowers his hands, waiting for Collins to put down the guitar and stand before throwing the envelope his way, who somehow catches it despite the tremor in his hands. “Crowd shouldn’t be too bad, but we’ve got guys watching those women, just in case.” He continues, brushing invisible dust off his suit. Collins studies it for a moment, and comes away thoroughly depressed when he realises that the tie alone is probably worth more money than everything he owns put together.

“Thank ye, is there anythin’ else I need to know about? Any tips?” He keeps his voice light, and it seems to work, the man letting out a short chuckle, an over exaggerated expression of deep thought on his face. Collins notices he has a scar that mangles the corner of his mouth, and immediately stops his mind from wondering how he might have acquired it.

“Try and stick to stuff they’ll know, you’ll get more out of ‘em,” He goes silent for a moment, then his face goes serious, and Collins _really_ regrets asking now. “Oh, and put on a good show yeah? The owner is coming in tonight y’see and-“ Collins stops listening, and the man seems to notice, trailing off slightly, eyes concerned.

“ _The owner?_ ” Collins asks, fists clenched.

“Yes.”

“Farrier?”

“Who else?” He seems suspicious for a moment, then, noting the abject fear on Collins’ face, seems to ignore it. “Don’t worry yourself, kid, he’s not so bad, you probably won’t even see ‘im, likes his privacy, you see,” Collins just nods, numb, and before he can give a verbal okay, another man has pulled back the curtain. “You go on in five minutes, good luck.” He turns and leaves, following the new nameless man out into the club, the curtain drifting closed behind them.

Collins slams his face into the desk three times, counts the money twice, and drains the flask entirely.

His five minutes are up far too quickly, so he stands, guitar slung over his aching shoulder as he exits through the curtain again into the now even darker room. The three steps he climbs up onto the stage take a lifetime, and the walk from the edge of the stage to its’ centre take another three. There’s a small crowd gathered around the front, the hen party whistling and calling from both sides of it. He does notice however, that two security guards are in amongst the crowd, they stick out like sore thumbs, after-all.

He stutters while introducing himself, but the crowd doesn’t seem to care – or, more likely due to their varying states of inebriation notice - and any that do are drowned out by the coos of the hen party; he’s never been so happy to have a group of screaming middle-aged women near him.

It goes from there, a shaky start, but under the bright spotlight he can’t see anyone, the crowd merges into the darkness, and his prior fear dissipates with them. So, he steps closer to the microphone, fingers sliding into position on his guitar, and just _sings_. He loses himself in it as he always does, and from the reaction the crowd is giving him, he’s certainly putting on the show he’s been asked for. Even the depressed men with their whiskey glasses get on their feet at points, singing or clapping along to the songs they recognise, though the singing is highly slurred, and many of the lyrics entirely wrong. Nearing the end, he catches the eye of the man who’d hired him, and in an act of recklessness he’ll never be able to comprehend, winks at him before throwing himself back into the final chorus of the song. The man laughs, proud of his find.

It’s over before he even feels as though it’s started, the lights dying down as he bows for a final applause - mainly from the hen party - before he clambers off the stage, slipping behind the dark curtain. As he crosses the stage, however, he has a moment of clarity from beneath the haze of adrenaline, and his eyes drift back to where his employer had been. Instead, he meets the eyes of another man, whose face he can make out perfectly in the restored light. It’s the owner, Farrier. The blonde jolts and quickens his pace, breathing a deep sigh of relief once the flimsy barrier has fallen again.

He puts his guitar away as quickly as possible, slipping the envelope of money into his bag, and is ready to bolt straight out the door when he realises that he can’t. That he’ll have to go over to the owner’s table, because that’s where the man will be with his tips from the night. Releasing a growl of frustration, he considers fleeing out the fire escape behind him, but forces himself to accept the reality that no, he definitely cannot do that. First because he does not want to be an unarmed man with £200 in his bag walking through London’s darkest back alleys, and second, he sorely needs those tips to pay off his rent, he’ll definitely be evicted if he falls behind _another_ month.

So he pulls on his coat, slings his bag over his shoulder, and lifts the guitar case with numb arms, silently wishing he’d brought a second flask with him. He pulls back the curtain and meanders out onto the main floor, generic music now playing, and the hen party well into their next round of drinks. He gives them a small wave, and his eyes dart around the room, before he finds the man over by the bar, dropping small notes and change into a brown envelope similar to the one in his bag. The blonde makes a point out of not glancing at Farrier’s table as he crosses the dark room, but halfway there it becomes impossible to ignore the fact that his eyes are burning holes into his back; he carries on nonetheless.

“You did well up there, Collins,” the man says once Collins reaches him, and the blonde just mutters his thanks, ducking his head, his awkwardness from earlier returning. The man clearly senses his apprehension, so finishes sliding the money into the envelope, sealing it, and handing it over with a tight smile. “Its only 50 quid, mind, mainly from your hen ladies, but at least you didn’t get anything thrown at ya.” Collins laughs, entirely false, and he’s about to thank the man and make his goodbyes when someone joins the conversation form his peripheral vision.

_Oh for f-_

“Foster, you weren’t about to let Mr. Collins here leave without sending him my way, were you?” Comes a voice Collins really, _really_ doesn’t want to be hearing right now, and as the newcomer moves to stand beside the man - whose name is Foster, apparently. Collins thinks he should have known that already - the feeling of dread only intensifies. Their eyes meet, and Collins wants to drop his gaze immediately, but finds himself unable to, far too fixated on working out what emotions he’s seeing the barest flickers of in the man’s eyes. Farrier stands slightly shorter than both Collins and Foster, but the power he exudes makes him seem 10 feet above them both, and his broad shoulders imply a physical strength that Collins doesn’t want to put to the test.

“No sir, of course not,” Foster states, but he doesn’t seem afraid, respectful, yes, but unafraid. It doesn’t seem right to Collins for some reason. Foster and Farrier seem to have some kind of silent conversation that Collins isn’t privy to, but nevertheless tries to decipher, ending with him being even more confused than when he started, and overall just really wanting to go home to his flat. Because despite it being cold, at least there’s no mind-reading gangsters there. “I have business to attend to, so if you don’t mind sir…” Foster trails off and Farrier waves him away with a single, quick flick of his wrist. There’s silence for a moment, before Farrier moves to stand opposite him, leaning against the bar, exuding pure confidence. Collins strongly resists the urge to roll his eyes at the cliché.

“I don’t want to sound rude, sir, but I _really must_ be going.” Collins says, making a point to glance down at the watch on his wrist, hoping that Farrier won’t notice it’s broken, and the hands haven’t moved in well over two years. Farrier nods, pausing for a moment to reach into his jacket pocket, pulling out a wad of notes that only serves to worsen Collins’ mood. The brunette pulls out five twenties, holding them out to Collins, whose brain has short-circuited. Farrier smiles, exposing crooked teeth, eyes wrinkling slightly.

“I thought I would give you my tip in person,” Farrier says, pausing when Collins takes the money form his hands, waiting for him to slip it into his bag before speaking again. “You really did put on a good show up there.”

“Thank you, sir.” Collins lets out a subtle breath of relief, both at the thought of being able to begin properly paying off his rent, as well as the prospect that this little exchange is soon to end, and he’ll be out on the street again, he’ll have to walk, but it’s not too far, he can make it in under half an hour. Farrier, however, seems to have a different idea.

“Drop the formalities, you don’t work for me. So you can call me Thomas, or, if you must, Farrier,” The brunette says, a slight hint of irritation in his voice, Collins keeps his mouth shut, sensing that the man isn’t finished talking yet. “Now, you look exhausted, its late, give me your address and I’ll drive you home.”

“No please it’s fine. The walk isn’t far, I’ll manage it.” Farrier hushes his protests with the same wave he’d given Foster, and Collins is both surprised and angered by the fact that he concedes to it almost immediately.

“Nonsense, its nearly midnight, you’ve got that great guitar to carry, and you’ve also got nearly £400 in your bag,” Collins sighs, Farrier’s logic is painfully sound. “So, let’s go.” Collins follows Farrier without another word, trying not to think too much into the way he holds doors open for him, brushing off people who try to get his attention with smooth words and empty promises as they pass. He’s meant to be charming, he reminds himself, it’s how he makes his money. Being out in the cold London air is a relief from the staleness inside the club, and Collins unintentionally falters at the sight of the car, a sleek black thing whose name Collins doesn’t know, and almost certainly wouldn’t be able to pronounce. He’s less surprised by the sight of Farrier’s driver, who looks exactly like the burly security staff inside the club, only he’s wearing a smarter suit. Farrier greets him with a nod, relaying the blonde’s address to him, before rounding the back of the car to help Collins fit his things into the boot. The blonde unable to mutter anything other than a quiet thank you as they split to their respective sides of the car.

The drive is quiet, but not oppressively or awkwardly so. It’s a quiet stillness that Collins finds an odd refuge in, and if the expression on Farrier’s face is anything to go by, he does too. Collins wonders about the man for a moment, eyes flitting between the dark scenery passing them and Farrier, who stares in front of him, faraway and distant. He wonders if he likes what he does, why he does it, if he’d rather be doing something else. He wonders about how he behaves when he’s alone, wonders what kind of person might be buried beneath the charming, intimidating front. And it _is_ a front, Collins is sure of it as he watches the man _just be_ , seemingly oblivious to Collins’ staring.

The car comes to a smooth stop in front of Collins’ building, and he’s getting ready to thank Farrier when the man is already opening his door, climbing out, and walking around to the back of the car to open the boot. Collins follows suit after a moment of stunned silence, fully ready to accept his belongings from Farrier’s hands and be done with it, but is instead met by the man standing there with his bag slung over one shoulder, and the guitar case held in the opposite hand.

“I can-“ Farrier raises an eyebrow, as if to say _don’t even bother,_ and Collins sighs, more audibly than he’d wanted to, a Gaelic curse slipping out without his brain’s permission. For a moment, he expects Farrier to throw his things to the ground and drive off, but instead he just laughs, a short little burst that is entirely uncharacteristic. Steadying himself, Collins just gestures towards the entrance. “This way.” He mutters, hiding flush of red rising up his neck to his cheeks.

The lift is - predictably - broken, and Collins attempts to use this as a way of getting the man to leave, Farrier just waves him off, saying he _could do with the exercise_ \- Collins silently disagrees. Collins sighs again, and starts the long walk up the stairs, Farrier following close behind. They pass an uncomfortable number of his neighbours on the way, all of whom greet Collins with wide smiles, and then quickly avert their eyes when they catch onto Farrier.

At least he knows what the weeks’ gossip will be about _for once._

They finally reach his flat, and only once Collins has opened the door does Farrier relent, guitar handed over first, bag sliding from his shoulders a moment afterwards. The blonde shuffles his way backwards, ready for this to be over with when Farrier starts to speak again.

“I have an offer for you,” He starts, demeanour changing to that of an unreadable businessman. Its intimidating, and also impossible to look away from, Collins rests the guitar case gently down on the floor, nodding. “You’re behind on your rent, aren’t you?” Collins stutters uncontrollably, a mix of shock and ongoing confusion. He swallows hard, attempting to get a grip.

“By three months,” He blurts, _get a fucking grip, man_. “How did you know that?” Farrier shifts, leaning against the doorframe.

“Foster did his research,” Farrier replies, though isn’t satisfied with it as an answer, and tries again. “Don’t look so worried, we just like to know who we’re working with,” This calms him somewhat, but not sufficiently enough, Farrier notices, and quickly seeks to get the conversation moving elsewhere. “The offer is, you play three gigs a week at my clubs, I pay off your existing debts and your ongoing rent, and you’ll also get a nightly rate of £200.” It’s too good to be true, isn’t it? He holds out for the cruel smile or harsh cackle, for the only joking or not really. But he holds out too long, and Farrier does none of this, and instead waits patiently, expression unreadable, while Collins is only capable of constructing one single thought:

_What the fuck?_

“I’d love to, but what you’re offering is too much.” Collins states firmly, unwilling to accept so much money, but not in any position to deny the offer entirely.

“What would you propose instead?” Collins thinks hard for a moment, and comes up with an answer that still makes him uncomfortable, but is the best alternative that still gains him the support he needs.

“You only pay my rent until I say to stop, until I’m back on me feet.” Collins answers, and Farrier mulls it over for a moment, despite having already made up his mind. Farrier holds his hand out, and the bottom drops out of Collins’ stomach.

“Deal,” He smiles again, and Collins shakes his hand, attempting to return the smile. “Your first show is next Tuesday, Foster will forward you the details.” Farrier moves backwards and Collins, in yet another fit of irrational absurdity, speaks again.

“Why me?” He asks, and Farrier levels him with a look that nearly knocks him off his feet with the heavy focus he places upon him. “There’s plenty of talent in this city, plenty who wouldn’t need you to pay their rent. So, why me?” His voice is the steadiest it’s been all night, and Farrier’s face is expressionless as he thinks of an answer.

“You’re different. I like that,” He replies, as though it doesn’t mean anything, as though it doesn’t hit Collins like a freight train. And there’s so much to unpack there, how is he different? Why does Farrier find this interesting? Collins asks none of these questions, and Farrier seems no more inclined to come up with answers for them. The brunette smiles once more, like an artist admiring his work - only this particular masterpiece is Collins, jaw on the floor and looking like an utter prick as his entire life is flipped on its side - before turning, stopping before he reaches the stairs. “Goodnight, Ainsley.” Then he’s gone, and Collins stands there for a few more long moments, like a fucking idiot, before finally pulling himself together and locking himself in his cold dark flat.

He doesn’t even turn the lights on, just pulls off his clothes and collapses into his bed, insulating himself in layer upon layer of blanket to keep out the cold. But, he concedes, as he’s drifting off. The cold isn’t so bad.

_At least there’s no fucking gangsters there to throw his life upside down._


	2. turn a blind eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is appallingly short, and lacking somewhat in plot. However, there is something big coming on the horizon for you soon. Any mistakes are mine, and do let me know if you spot any! Kudos and comments are much appreciated! Thank you and enjoy x

He wakes late the next morning in a haze, squinting against the morning light, eyes burning and the ache in his shoulder immediately making itself known. Clearly, he’d forgotten to close the curtains the night before, as light is spewing profusely into the room. He rolls onto his side and clamps his tired eyes shut. The previous night is a bit of a haze still, though the adrenaline has worn off now, so he’s left wondering about what he’s supposed to do now, where does he go with all this?

His phone vibrates where it rests precariously on his makeshift bedside table - an overturned plant pot he’d picked up from a briefly held job at a florists’- and he just glares at it for a moment. Knowing that as soon as he picks it up, he’ll have to actually start making plans about how he’s going to spend the day, that he’ll have to acknowledge the fact that staying curled up in his bed with the blankets pulled up over his face to block out the light is not going to help him find a new job. Standing from the bed on unsteady legs, he makes his way to the bathroom, standing under the lukewarm spray, trying to comprehend the night's events until it goes cold. He finds his jeans from the night before beside his bed and pulls them on, wandering into the kitchen to pull on the white shirt that is flung haphazardly over single chair that sits there. He spends several moments standing in the doorway between the bathroom and his bedroom, water dripping from his wet hair onto his shoulders, eyeing his phone with a strong sense of contempt.

He considers what would happen if he were to simply ignore it, he knows who it’s from, after all. It’ll be from Foster, telling him about the arrangements for Tuesday night, a prospect that despite only being three days away now, he is determined not to think about yet. By contradiction however - and isn’t that just it though, _life_ is a fucking contradiction - he’s filled with an unavoidable curiosity that makes his skin itch. He wants to know what kind of shady bar Farrier will have him playing at this time, whether it would be wise to invest in some sort of knife to slip into his jeans - and isn’t _that_ an image _-_ what the chances are of him getting murdered in some dark back alley for overhearing something he wasn’t meant to, Farrier’s charming smile and crooked teeth the last thing he sees as he’s pummelled to death.

 _Stop being so dramatic_ , the rational part of him interrupts, _he’s getting you out of a tight spot, here_.

 

 _In return for what?_ His cynicism retorts. 

 

There’s no response to that, and Collins does his best to ignore it.

With a heavy sigh, he crosses the small distance between himself and the bed, the old metal frame creaking loudly as he sits. For a moment, he stares at the dark reflection of himself on the phone screen, damp hair sticking up at all angles, heavy bags under his eyes. For a moment he thinks of Foster, and of the scar on his lip. Then he thinks of Farrier, and wonders what damage may be hidden under his fancy suits and debilitating charisma, what marks the life he's chosen has left on him. 

He closes his eyes as he opens the message, as though it might make it go away, as though he can hide there in the darkness. But his refuge is short-lived, and with a low grumble, he opens his eyes, reluctantly reading the message on the screen from a number he doesn’t recognise.

 

**_You’ll be playing at Club Fortis on Tuesday. A car will be outside your building to get you at 6pm, show starts at 7:30. You’d best do your research this time, kid._ **

**_Foster._ **

 

Collins blanches, and the phone drops from his numb fingers, clattering loudly as it hits the floor. Collins can’t hear it though; his internal monologue is too busy screaming hysterically.

 

It’s only the thin walls and his consideration for his neighbours that stops him from screaming out loud, too. 

Club Fortis is Farrier’s flagship establishment, classy and well-placed in the West-End, it's normally filled to the brim with celebrities paying far too much for drinks in some kind of odd competition, in which the winner is the one who has run up the largest tab. There’s an official waiting list that non-VIPs have to sign to even get a chance at getting inside, and more money is exchanged there each night than Collins will ever earn in his entire lifetime. In summary, it is _exactly_ the kind of place Collins doesn’t belong in. His faded jeans and rumpled dress shirts are the best he has in terms of formalwear, and he’ll stick out miserably in a crowd made up of the rich and famous, resplendent in all the latest fashions that Collins hasn’t even heard of, let alone afford. He seriously considers replying to Foster, saying he can’t that night. But the more shows he plays the more money he earns, and the more money he earns the closer to being done with Farrier and his shady nightclubs he’ll be.

 

It’s not that he’s ungrateful, no. And Farrier does seem like a somewhat kind - while frustratingly attractive - man. But Collins has always trusted his innate cynicism over human kindness, and Farrier isn’t getting anything out of their arrangement. So, the quicker he’s done with it, the quicker he can feel safe.

 

He makes his decision.

 

**_Alright. Any suggestions for clothes? I’ll need to go out and find something, I know what the place is like._ **

 

Foster doesn’t reply for ten minutes, and Collins starts getting concerned, wondering what he’s said wrong, how he’s managed to fuck this up so quickly. He’s almost impressed by his own ineptness until-

 

**_Farrier will drop something off for you later._ **

 

Collins doesn’t know how to respond to that. So he doesn’t, for a few moments anyways. He’s beginning to type a half-coherent response when his phone rings loudly, startling him so much he drops the thing, quickly grabbing it back and answering it with a shaky voice.

 _“He’ll make you look the part, kid. Don’t worry about it.”_ Collins is caught so off guard by Foster’s abruptness that he has to take a moment to remember what is actually happening _._

“What if I’m busy?” Collins replies, not entirely sure why he does. But it happens, and he silently kicks himself for it. Foster just laughs.

“ _I can see why he likes you_ ,” Foster mutters quietly, and Collins has barely processed that before he throws Collins off balance yet again. “ _And you haven’t got a job, Collins. You have no family here either. You’re never busy.”_

“Doesn’t he have a _job_ to do?” Collins asks then, upon realising he’s currently on the phone to one of Farrier’s employees - _that definitely isn’t the right word to describe whatever Foster is_ , but he’s too busy trying to rectify this situation - instantly regrets it.

“ _He does, and part of that is making sure the entertainer in his most important club looks like he belongs there._ ”

 

Collins doesn’t even bother trying to answer back to that, instead conceding, saying his goodbyes, and collapsing back onto his bed, not caring that his wet hair will leave a damp spot. After a moment he stands, deciding to make at least one part of his day normal. If he has to have his clothes bought for him, and then go on to play at one of the most prestigious clubs in London which is, by a wonderful coincidence, owned by London’s most notorious gangster; Collins is going to have a normal fucking breakfast.

It occurs to him as he’s standing in front of his bare fridge that he could feasibly go out, properly stock up his fridge, fill his kitchen with things other than stale bread and tinned soup. Instead, he sets about making himself a plate of toast - the toaster had been one of the few things he’d brought to the flat from home. He’d stolen it, yes, but that wasn’t important - perching himself on the counter, tapping his foot idly against the worn floorboards. His phone finds its way into his hands again, and it takes a conscious effort to concede, to unlock the thing. There’s no effort on his part when he ignores a new message flashing up on his screen. It’s the third from his brother already that day, and Collins is not about to include him in the strange turn his life has taken. His fingers move across the screen without his consent, and soon he’s searching through news headlines, all of them focussed around a single topic: Farrier.

The older articles tend to just profile him. Including all kinds of details about his childhood, about where he’d grown up, how he’d gotten to where he is now. The articles that get his attention are the ones that outline the few stints in prison he’s had. Three years for GBH when he was 18 which he’d never served, six months for fraud at the age of 20 which he’d served four months of and finally, there was a year in a young offender’s institution for theft when he’d been only 13. He’d never served that either. Farrier hadn’t been to prison since he was 20, and had no formal charges pressed against him in five years. All of those that had been had either been dropped or dismissed by the judge. It makes him somewhat angry, because all the dismissals and last-minute withdrawals have corruption written all over them, whether done by Farrier’s father when he’d been young, or by himself when he’d taken over later. He has to remind himself that that’s just how Farrier is, how he survives. For all intents and purposes, he’s not a good person, so applying morals to him is entirely useless.

He thinks of this as he’s eating his half-burnt toast, wondering what his own life would have been like if he’d had Farrier’s upbringing.

He wonders if Farrier’s ever killed anyone.

The fact that the answer to that question is not definitely no puts him off his food. And to distract himself, he sets himself on cleaning up his flat properly. He starts in the bedroom and makes his way through, organising his clothes and throwing away old papers, finally watering the dying plant that rests on the creaky wooden dresser. There’s not much to do in the kitchen, nor the lounge. He’s long since given up on the ever-growing pile of paperbacks in the corner of the living room, and the only maintenance he gives it is shifting a few so the base becomes more stable, less precarious.

His final task is the significantly smaller pile of letters spread out across the floor in front of the door. Most of them are from his landlord, requesting the rent. He puts all of those into the bin with quick succession, Farrier will clear all that up, after all. There’s an accumulation of fliers there too, which he immediately throws in the bin with the bills, knowing he’s not going to need a man called John to chop down any trees in his back garden any time soon. He knows who the last one is from before he even picks it up. The near-illegible writing on the front has his brother’s drunken hands all over it.

He wastes no time in ripping the envelope in half with a quiet growl, dumping it into the bin with the rest and turning his back on it.

By the time the sun sets, he’s thoroughly exhausted himself, and drags the chair from the kitchen into the bedroom, sitting it by the window which he then opens with a low grunt, settling himself down to have a quick smoke. They’re not really supposed to do this, but the only people that’ll see it are the neighbours on either side of him. One of which does the same thing on a regular basis, while the other is rarely there anyways. Sitting there, the evening breeze on his face, eyes closed and the sounds of the city muffled, he feels some sort of peace. A calm he hasn’t felt since he left his little village in the borders. With his eyes closed he’s there, sitting in a wide, empty field, watching the dying sun paint the sky in anguish. There’s no fear there, no worry, no stress.

_There’s just him and the sky._

A knock on the door has him startled from his daydream, and he takes his time shutting the window, stubbing out the cigarette on the windowsill. He takes his time walking to the door, and is unsurprised when he finds Farrier standing there. The man is dressed no more casually than he had been the last time Collins had seen him. Though he was now devoid of both suit jacket and tie, and his white dress shirt wasn’t buttoned up all the way. Collins stares at this particular aspect of his outfit for a moment, trying to decide whether it was done purposefully to achieve a look, or whether it had just been done for comfort reasons.

Standing to the side without a word, letting Farrier into the flat, Collins decides it was probably done for style.

“Your neighbours weren’t too pleased to see me.” Farrier states as he looks around the room, eyes finally falling back on Collins, who in turn stares determinedly down at the floor, idly noticing for the first time that one of the floorboards is a different colour to the rest. 

“Don’t blame them.” Collins mutters without meaning to. Farrier just laughs, and Collins’ internal frustration with the man has already reached boiling point. Why does Farrier, a man who is supposed to take himself very seriously, laugh whenever he insults him? It gives the brunette a profoundly human quality that Collins is fighting to ignore. He notices now that Farrier has a black bag curled over his forearm, like the ones people use to protect suit jackets from dust. Collins has never used one for himself. 

“I _do_ need to work on my image in places like this,” Farrier says, trailing off slightly at the end as if in deep thought. Collins looks at him fully now, and nearly laughs at how out of place he looks. Dressed in expensive clothes, a shining silver ring on his middle finger, standing in Collins’ living room with all it’s cracked paint and dust. Farrier remains silent, as though allowing for Collins’ examination, before breaking the peace again, moving to gently lay the bag down on the worn sofa. His eyes catch onto the hesitant expression on Collins’ face, and he smiles in a way that’s meant to be reassuring. Collins curses internally when it proves successful. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to look like a prick.” Collins can’t help but snort, nodding, and taking the cue of Farrier stepping backwards to make his way to the sofa pulling down the zip with shaky hands, and pulling out the contents with the exposed hanger’s neck. 

What he pulls out is reassuringly simplistic: a navy suit jacket and white dress shirt, matching trousers folded over the hanger. Farrier’s eyes are on him again, and when Collins doesn’t say anything, concern briefly passes over his face. Then Collins’ hands tentatively brush down the fabric, as though it’s some kind of exotic animal, and the brunette relaxes somewhat.

“You might want to try it on.” Farrier says, and when Collins looks over at him, the confidence and charisma is all gone, leaving behind this awkward, nervous man who’s entirely unrecognisable to Collins. The facade quickly comes back up, Farrier’s face now unreadable. But he feels somehow privileged to have seen this other side to him, this person who wasn’t all intimidation and confidence. Someone who seemed just as out of place in their life as Collins was. It's similar to how he felt watching Farrier in the car the night before. He wonders how many others have seen him like that, devoid of the persona he'd artfully crafted for himself.  This inspires a wave of bravado in Collins he hadn’t been expecting, but he runs with it anyways.

“Alright,” He says, moving past Farrier in the direction of the bedroom. “Ye can make sure I look good enough for all those celebrities.” Farrier lets out a short laugh, taking seat on the worn sofa, and watching the door close behind Collins. He spends the brief time Collins is changing looking around the room again, noting the smell of cigarette smoke with a quirk of his lip, eyes catching on the stacks of books in the corner of the room. He considers going to leaf through the battered paperbacks when the bedroom door opens again, revealing the blonde looking more uncomfortable than Farrier’s seen, and that’s saying quite a lot. The brunette has to steady himself for a moment, eyes on the floor, taking a slow, deep series of breaths in through his nose. Collins notices none of this, he’s too busy pulling at his collar where it scratches his chin and at his trousers where they pull a bit tighter than he’d prefer.

“I’m not so-“ Collins stops himself abruptly when Farrier stands , crossing the room with long strides to stand in front of him, far too close for Collins to trust his voice. Farrier looks him up and down, only adding to Collins’ discomfort, before he nods to himself, muttering something Collins can’t hear before reaching out towards him. The blonde flinches, and Farrier backs off minutely, waiting for Collins to nod - unable to give verbal reassurance - before reaching out again, unbuttoning the top two buttons, brushing down the sides of the jacket before standing back, pleased with himself.

“It looks good.” Farrier states, voice low and Collins flushes uncontrollably, eyes dropping to the floor.

“I don’t look like a prick, then?” Collins asks, a small smile on his face, a sign of growing confidence; Farrier grins.

“ _Definitely_ not.” And there’s that easy smile again, and Collins feels like he’s in free fall.  _God get a grip man_.

Collins is about to reply when Farrier’s phone rings loudly, forcing him back into silence. He watches as brief disappointment flashes in Farrier’s eyes, and an apologetic smile pulls at his lips as he answers it, turning away from Collins to speak. The blonde decides its best to leave the room, taking the suit bag with him into the bedroom, and doing his best to avoid creasing the clothes as he puts them back as he found them, pulling the clothes he’d been wearing earlier back on. Farrier’s voice is hushed from what he can hear through the door, but it’s harsh, frustration clear.

When Farrier goes silent, he takes in a deep breath, opening the door and stepping into the room warily. Farrier is standing with his hands on his hips, breathing deeply, eyes screwed shut. Collins just stays silent, watching the man calm himself down. Farrier’s eyes open, and his expression morphs into apologetic again, the frustration seeping from his body instantly. Collins tries not to read too much into that.

“Eveythin’ okay, Farrier?” Collins asks gently, not moving any closer to the man, wariness overpowering everything else. Farrier nods but he won’t meet his eyes, too distracted. By what, Collins doesn’t know. He suspects that he doesn’t want to, and that even if he did ask, Farrier would never tell him anyways.

“Just business,” Farrier replies, exasperation lining his voice. He finally looks up at Collins, seemingly reluctant to speak, though knowing he must. Collins knows the feeling. “I’ll have to be off, now. If everything is good here?” Collins nods, but Farrier isn’t leaving, the living embodiment of hesitance and reluctance. 

“Go and do your _job_.” Collins says, breaking through the wariness, Farrier brightens somewhat, though his mood remains dour overall. 

Farrier walks to the doorway, stopping with his hand on the handle, head turned slightly to the side, but back still faced to the blonde.

"I know what you think of me," he states, before turning at an angle that must be painful, eyes on Collins, holding him in place where he stands. "What would it take to change that, Ainsley?" Collins stays silent, and Farrier smiles at him, bittersweet. He turns away and closes the door quietly, and Collins collapses onto the floor once he's alone again, the distant sound of Farrier's footsteps fading out into silence.

He spends the remainder of his evening on his sofa, staring at the growing crack in the ceiling, wondering what Farrier meant. Wondering who had been on the phone, what had gotten Farrier so worked up, so frustrated. _So human._

 _You know what his business is,_ says that rational voice in his head, _you don’t want to know._

_I do._

_Why?_

Collins doesn’t try to answer that question, and goes to sleep early instead.


	3. the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this ended up shorter than expected, as I've decided to save some action for the next chapter. Also, a word of warning, I have mock exams over the next week or so, so updates to this may well be delayed, as I've got to revise! So please use this 5k to tide you over. As always, kudos and comments are encouraged and much appreciated. (This has been read through fully only by me, so all errors are my own!)
> 
> Enjoy! x

Farrier makes his way out of Collins’ building with little care about the stares being directed his way. A mother clutches her baby to her chest averting her eyes, while a man behind her falters, sizing Farrier up for a moment. He ignores them both, phone clutched white-knuckled in his hand as he pushes open the door, not noticing the swift change from the stale tepidness of the building to the biting cold the outside. His car rolls to a stop beside him, and he slides into the back seat in a fluid, practiced motion, the car immediately picking up the pace again and driving off. He takes a moment to let out a deep, frustrated sigh before turning to Foster, who has a phone to his ear, another in his hand while another two sit on the spare seat between them. Foster lets out a loud, frustrated growl, letting out a string of curses before hanging up the phone, taking a moment to calm himself before turning to face Farrier, looking thoroughly exhausted. 

“What the _hell_ happened, Foster?” Farrier hisses across at him, eyes glancing away momentarily to look out through the windscreen, figuring out their location before turning back to Foster, whose hands are raised in surrender. “ _How_ the hell did this happen?”

“They’re saying you promised them all of your operations and contacts down in the southern docks,” one of the phones lights up, and Foster types a frantic, angry response before sitting back with a deep sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. “But the McCrees are saying that half of them are theirs.” Farrier rolls his eyes and then closes them for a moment, silently cursing drug dealers and their overinflated egos. The McCrees were hardly a threat to him, but were stupid enough to start a war over something like this. Meanwhile, it was best to appease the Fletchers, as Farrier’s closest rivals it was far better for everyone to keep them sweet. “They put Jackson and a couple of others in the hospital, nothing too bad. But its still a warning, Farrier.” Farrier lets out a long curse, allowing his head to fall unceremoniously into his hands, rubbing over his face for a few moments, both with the frustration of the situation, and the guilt over more of his men getting put into the hospital. Jackson was only an accountant for Christs sake, working with Farrier to pay his way through uni and yet he’d been beaten up more times in the last month than anyone else had.

“I want Jackson out,” Farrier states after a long moment of silence, Foster turning to look at him, Farrier easily meeting his incredulous gaze. “This is his third strike. So get him out, post minimal security on him and make sure his fees get paid in full.” Foster nods his head in time with the orders, typing furiously on a different phone, sending off the messages to all the right people, while setting a reminder for himself to find them a new accountant. Maybe this time one who wouldn’t get into fights quite so often.

“I’m going to assume that the Fletchers aren’t willing to concede half of the Southern docks without an incentive?” Farrier asks, staring off into the middle distance as he forms a plan, twisting the silver ring on his middle finger. Foster grunts an affirmative, fingers tying at a hundred miles an hour on his phone screen. “What if we give them Dover?” Foster stops, eyes narrowed at Farrier. None of Farrier’s other advisors would be so blatant about their disapproval; its exactly why he consults Foster the most out of all of them.

“We don’t have enough to blackmail them into a deal?” Foster asks, eyes unfocused as though he’s searching his own mind for anything they might be able to use. Farrier shakes his head. 

“If we did, we’d have done that already and I wouldn’t be suggesting Dover,” Farrier goes silent again, looking away from Foster and out the dark window. “The McCrees keep what they have already, we give the Fletcher boys the Dover mules and dealers, and they’ll stay out of the way.” He’s made a habit of thinking aloud like this with Foster, who nods along with him, unable to find a flaw in his logic. Foster goes silent again for a few long minutes, switching rapidly between phones, brow furrowed in concentration. Farrier stays focussed on the dark scenery passing them by. He considers Collins momentarily, trying to decipher the moment of weakness he’d had standing there in the man’s dull flat. Slouching back where he sits, he wonders whether he should have someone brief Collins on the possible dangers that could arise from headlining at Fortis, both from gangs like the Fletchers and the bloodthirsty tabloids, desperate to update the public as quickly as possible on every aspect of Farrier’s life and scrutinise it. He ultimately decides against it. Collins seems smart, he'll know the risks, and he also knows Farrier's reputation. He wouldn't have taken Farrier's offer in the first place if he thought that the risks might outweigh the gains. He barely notices when the car comes to a smooth stop outside his building, and as he’s turning to give final orders to Foster and bid him goodnight, he does notice the rain now falling outside.

Foster doesn’t look up at first, just produces a phone from his jacket pocket; where the man keeps all of these usually, Farrier has no idea and just takes it with a raised eyebrow, slipping it into his shirt pocket.

“Will Fletcher’s going to call you on that in half an hour.” Foster says, finally glancing up from his phone screen, looking even more tired than he had before.

“Thank you,” Farrier pauses, considering Foster for a moment longer before continuing. “Check up on everyone, then get yourself an early night, Foster,” Foster looks as though he’s going to protest; Farrier silences him with a look. “That's an _order_.” Foster at last nods, defeated.

Farrier wastes no time climbing out of the car, not waiting to watch it drive off in the direction of _Fortis_ as he enters into his building, leaning back against the wall in the lift on the way up to his floor. He thinks again of Collins, of the broken lift and the exasperated expression on his face when he’d insisted to carry his bag and guitar up the flights of stairs. On the short walk to his door, he tries again to decipher what had happened back in Collins' flat. He puts it down to tiredness, and the general stress of his life as he opens his door, instinctively checking each room for unexpected visitors before locking the front door.

It’s painfully modern inside, but it’s perfectly placed and the landlord had sold it to him without the need for too much force. There’s only a few, small details to make the flat in any way personal. The bookshelf beside the TV is filled with an ever-expanding collection of books, most of them yellowed and rumpled from age and use. In his bedroom there’s a small congregation of framed photos, most of him and his mother or him and Foster when they’d both been young, some with men they couldn't trust anymore. There were more in the drawers beside his bed, of him and his brother or his father. He tended only to look at those when drunk and melancholy.

Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he settles down into the armchair he’d moved from beside the sofa to the other side of the lounge, positioned by the doorway out onto the balcony. The balcony itself blocks the majority of the view of the sprawling city below. But he can still see the sky, and that’s enough to make him feel safe. He nurses the drink with his eyes on the dark sky, his own reflection staring back at him in the glass of the doors. He stands when his eyes drift dangerously near to closing, drink left behind with his eyes still on the horizon and for a moment he’s somewhat at peace, the sounds of the city below and around. Him muffled by the walls surrounding him. He wonders what Collins might be doing now, but shuts down that train of thought when the phone in his pocket rings loudly. Scooping the it from his pocket, he wastes no time raising the phone to his ear, mentally preparing himself. 

“ _Farrier_.” Comes a smug voice through the phone, his name drawn out in an attempt to intimidate; it doesn’t work. Farrier takes a moment to pause, taking one last look out at the sky before settling himself back into his seat, eyes up on the ceiling.

“Will,” Farrier replies shortly, already tired of the conversation before its even begun. “Want to tell me why you thought you had the right to put three of my men in the hospital?” The line goes silent for a moment, and Farrier waits impatiently, fingers of his free hand tapping against the arm of the chair.

“ _You sold the same product to two people, my friend_.” Fletcher’s voice is too proper and too smug for Farrier’s liking. He can barely deal with the man at the best of times, let alone now. 

“We are _not_ friends,” Farrier replies abruptly, quickly recovering afterwards. “And I made it clear that you’d only get half of what I own down there.”

“ _You expect me to share with those bastards? You’ll have to do better than that_ ,” he pauses, letting out a short, irritating laugh. “ _And since when haven’t we been friends?_ ”

“Since you had one of your boys try to kill me six months ago,” Farrier snaps. It had been insulting more than anything else, sending a naive kid after him armed with only a handgun and no backup. Farrier had been merciful, calling an ambulance after shooting him twice in the shoulder and leg. “And I do have a better offer, if you keep your mouth shut and stay out of my way for the rest of what will likely be a short life.”

“ _You’re asking a lot there, Farrie. You know how easily money can sway a man-_ “

“Dover,” Farrier interrupts. Fletcher goes silent. “I’ll give you all my contacts, mules and stock in Dover, if you fuck off.” More silence, but Farrier doesn’t need an answer. He knows that Fletcher will say yes, even if he can’t actually see his face.

“ _Deal_.” The voice is more serious now, but Farrier wants to break his jaw just as much as he had earlier.

“Good, someone will be round by the end of the week to sign everything.” Farrier is opening his mouth to end the call when he’s interrupted, his fists clenching. 

“ _Men like you don’t get to walk away from this life, Farrier. You should learn to be more like your father, he knew that_ ” Farrier only doesn’t speak for fear of starting a gang war. “ _This won’t end well_.”

“That’s my business, not yours,” Farrier growls; Fletcher stays vigilantly silent. “Now, _fuck off_.”

He hangs up the call and drains the last dregs of his drink, texting Foster on his way to the bedroom before collapsing onto the bed.

-

It’s only as the car is pulling into the dark carpark at the back of the club - reserved only for Farrier - that Collins realises how far out of depth he is here, and the new suit isn't going to do much to help him if he can't properly act the part. Foster is there, only the familiarity of his face to reassure him. Foster had been the one to knock on his door earlier that evening, the appraising little nod he’d given Collins’ new look helping to quell his fear for the thirty minutes of driving time between his flat and the club. Even the outside of the place was far out his league, all red carpets and burly bouncers, men and women dressed in their finest as they strode confidently along it towards the large glass doors. The bright elegant sign hanging above them a stark contrast to what had slumped on the front wall of his last venue, the tacky neon light flickering into and fading out of life frequently.

In the darkness behind the place, he feels somewhat safer, and he’s already mildly buzzed from a few glasses of the cheap whiskey he kept in his flat. But the tall building is an ominous reminder, and the brief glimpse he’d gotten of the clientele had his stomach churning uncontrollably. Foster moves, as though to leave, when he notices the expression on Collins’ face, his skin even paler than usual.

“You walk in there lookin’ like that and it’ll be over before it even starts,” Foster advises, harsh yet helpful. “Smile, look like you belong there,” Foster opens his door and turns to get out but pauses at the last minute, one foot out on the damp concrete. “And for god's sake, put on a good show.” Collins waits for a moment in the car, taking a deep breath and counting to ten in his head before schooling his features into some kind of neutrality. He feels entirely numb as he slings his guitar over his shoulder, following Foster’s back into the club, his ears immediately assaulted by loud music and laughter, incessant chatter filing the humid air.

Foster has at least done him the courtesy of delivering him immediately into the backstage area, which is filled with glittery dancers and other entertainers, make-up artists flitting between them at lightning fast speeds. He’s noticed as a newcomer immediately, and walks with his back straightened and head held high despite the numerous eyes on him, looking him up and down somewhat obsessively. Foster walks past all of them unfazed by the looks they shoot him; some look on at him with fear, while others notice Collins trailing close behind him, and just look between them in confusion. There's a small wooden door at the end of the long room that juts out from the red brick walls, and Collins feels the apprehension rising again as Foster opens it, waiting for Collins to enter before closing it.

The room is lowly lit, unlike the contrasting brightness from the mirrors and stage lights they've just passed through. There’s a desk with a mirror similar to those lining the walls outside, while the rest of the room lays mostly bare, a few crates filling one of the corners. Collins does however notice the large wooden cabinet on the wall behind Foster, in which he can clearly see the outlines of bottles of whiskey and vodka; Foster sees him looking, and snorts.

“That’s Farrier’s private stash, wouldn’t go touching it if I were you, mate.” Foster says, though makes no move to leave, nor instruct Collins on anything further. Instead he just stands, staring. When the awkwardness between them has reached the highest level Collins is capable of tolerating, he moves, lifting his guitar case up onto the desk, breathing a sigh of relief when it doesn't creak or sway like the last one had. Foster stays watching him intently as he slides into the chair and lifts the guitar from its case, starting to tune it, self-consciously checking himself over in the mirror every few minutes. He's incapable of thinking back on Farrier, though he gives himself a break this time, he is in the man's club after all, thinking about him isn't that unusual. Collins just can't understand him, he's so contradictory to what he's meant to be and it's slowly driving Collins insane. He just doesn't _get_ him.

“Why is he so interested in me?” Collins blurts, not meaning to have said it. Foster’s brow furrows, and he gives Collins a chance to retract his question, lip quirking slightly when he doesn’t. 

“Try as I might, I have no idea what goes on in his head.” Foster replies, and Collins doesn’t press any further, though wants to keep conversation going, unwilling to be plunged back into that silence again.

“Who’s in there?” He asks, looking down momentarily to focus on his guitar, hands shaking and making the task far more difficult than it should be. “I know about the celebrities or whatever, but-“

“You’re safe, Collins,” Foster replies quickly, eyes hard and expression unreadable, after a moment however, he concedes. “There’s dangerous people in there, yes. But you should know that the worst of ‘em all is payin your rent right now,” Collins looks down and away from him, trying to appear as though he’s focusing on the guitar that is now perfectly in tune; he just needs something to keep his hands busy. “So you’re safe, alright?” Collins nods, swallowing the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. Foster leaves soon after that, phone ringing loudly despite the thundering music and chatter conning from next door. The expression on his face is of pure frustration as he answers the call, cursing loudly just before the door closes behind him.  

Collins spends ten minutes staring at the wall, and when 7pm finally ticks around, he mentally runs through his set. He’s got half an hour, and as suggested by Foster, he’s playing things he can’t fuck up and that the crowd, no matter how drunk or put out by his conduct, will love. It’s aggravating, having to play songs that aren’t his own. But the thought of his paid rent and the envelope of money at the end of the evening are more than enough for him to put his creative frustration aside. He thinks again on what Foster had said, still unsure whether or not its as reassuring as it was intended to be. It is somewhat comforting to know that Farrier is entirely in control here, but knowing he’s at the man’s mercy is hardly a good place to be. He’s seen what the mercy of gangsters looks like, and it  involves broken bones and months in the hospital. It looks like families irreparably torn apart. Then Farrier’s words from the other night come echoing back _What would it take to change that, Ainsley?_ Collins doesn’t know the answer to that question, but that isn’t the frustrating thing.

The frustrating thing is that Farrier asked _him._

_Why?_

It’s both a relief and a further frustration when the door opens, revealing Foster, face blank. Collins glances down at his watch, and curses when he sees the time. He takes a long moment to just check himself over, Foster doing the same for him from across the room in the mirror. Repeating what he’d done in the car, he closes his eyes and counts to ten, then stands on slightly steadier legs, guitar on his shoulder, and a false confidence in his step. The act isn’t obvious, and Foster seems to approve, nodding contemplatively before moving off from where he’s leant against the door, leading Collins back through the backstage room, this time not feeling the eyes on him. The act coming off from the stage is a jubilant jazz band, and it almost disorients him for a moment, when they level him with eager smiles and _good lucks_ , he smiles right back, looking once at Foster before climbing up onto the stage.

The club is far larger than Collins had been anticipating. A long bar along the far wall, small circular tables filling the majority of the floor space, each of them attached to groups of resplendently dressed men and women, empty champagne bottles littering the place like cheap liquor bottles. His apprehension doesn’t show as he crosses the stage, maintaining the confidence, and flashing as bright yet natural of a smile as he can manage. A group of women near the front give him a loud whistle, and he winks back at them receiving a raucous response; slipping fully into his stage persona. Foster said to put on a good show, and who knows who’s watching, so put on a good show, he does.

Though somewhat unsure at first, by the end of the first song the crowd turns attentive and appreciative, throwing drunken praise at him between glasses of expensive alcohol, champagne sloshing over the tables and floors as some stand on unsteady feet, laughing as they attempt to dance and sing along in the limited space they have. The reaction is more than enough to quell any former apprehension, and he moves across the stage with ease, doing whatever he can to elicit excited screams or cheers from the audience. Mid way through, he scans the audience, looking for a target like the group of girls he’s already got riled up and jolly to the side of him. Instead, what he finds is first Foster, giving him a thumbs up and a nod, then Farrier who, even in the darkness, looks stressed. Collins feels his expression shift momentarily, and forces himself to look away, throwing himself back into his persona and not looking at Farrier again. The crowd, unsurprisingly, doesn’t notice.

Until, as the last song is coming to a close, his eyes drift back to the table at the centre of the room, to Farrier. This time, the brunette has a drink in his hand, and acknowledges Collins’ gaze, giving him a smile that looks strained and forced, even from his distance. He looks back at Foster, who levels Collins with a serious look. The blonde just looks away, finishing the final song and standing back from the microphone as the crowd cheers and applauds. The lights go down, and he scarpers off down the stairs, squeezing past the troop of dancers waiting to go on after him. He staggers his way back into the room and he nearly collapses into the chair when he reaches it, guitar placed back into its case after a few long moments comprised mostly of Collins trying to come down from his adrenaline high.

He catches his appearance in the mirror, and presses a light touch to his flushed cheeks, running a hand through his sweaty hair, trying to bring it back under some kind of control. Its as he’s doing this that there’s a knock at the door, and Collins nearly pulls a handful of his own hair out due to how hard he startles. He lets out a loud curse, standing in the middle of the room and straightening his suit before speaking.

“Come in.” His voice is embarrassingly weak and unsure, and he feels his eyes go wide as the door opens to reveal Farrier, two glasses in one hand, a brown envelope in the other. He’s dressed as he had been the night they’d met, clad in an impeccable suit and hair perfectly in place. Though his expression juxtaposes with the rest of him, tired and weary, but still wearing that trademark smile that’s somewhere between a smile and a smirk. As though he knows something you don’t know, but is too kind to use it against you. It’s unnerving, and having the words kind and Farrier in the same sentence seems like an oxymoron.

“That was a good show you put on up there,” Farrier says, letting the door close behind him. There’s an odd finality to it, and Collins takes a step back as the brunette takes one closer. He raises the glasses in his hand, and Collins eyes flit momentarily to the liquor cabinet. “If you want to take your cash and go home, that’s fine. Or, you can stay, and I’ll invite you to have a drink with me.” Collins nods dumbly, and tries desperately to control his vocal chords. It doesn’t work

“Here?” He blurts, but can’t go back on it, Farrier never seems to let him do that. “I’d have thought you’d want tae be out there.” He explains, gesturing towards the door. Farrier shrugs, shifting his weight from foot to foot before replying.

“No, I can’t stand them,” Collins snorts, finding this amusing for some unknown reason, and Farrier just laughs with him, looking a bit less tired than he had before, but still like a dead man walking. There’s silence again, and Farrier takes a long few moments to break it. “So, what’ll it be?” Collins only spends a few moments in internal debate, his logic’s argument going down screaming in flames.

“I’m no’ the kind man to turn down free alcohol, Farrier.” Collins replies, giving a short smile before turning to close his guitar properly into its case, lifting it from the desk and onto the floor before settling back down into the chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Farrier opening the cabinet, bringing out a bottle of what looks like whiskey and starting to pour it out into the glasses. He slides his phone from his trouser pocket to check the time, and pauses when he sees he has three missed calls, all from his brother. His thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, before deleting the notification and sliding the phone back into his pocket. As he does so, Farrier places a glass down on the desk in front of Collins, before turning to perch himself on the edge of it, facing Collins and probably far closer to him than need be, their calves brushing as he adjusts himself. Collins finds himself without the motivation to change the situation, and instead focuses on the glass being offered to him.

“What kind of a man are you then?” Farrier asks as he places his glass back down on the desk beside him. Collins takes another drink, then follows suit, studying his own reflection for a moment, the flush high in his cheeks refusing to fade.

“Not sure yet,” He starts, moving away from his reflection to look up at Farrier. “I’ll let you know when I find out.” Farrier hums lowly and nods, as if in agreement, before taking another drink himself, eyes on Collins again.

“It suits you,” Farrier says after a long pause, and despite his searching, Collins has precisely zero responses to that. So he stays silent instead, trying to ignore Farrier’s overwhelming intensity that he seems to apply to all things. “I’ll take you next time.” Collins nearly chokes on his drink, and Farrier’s eyes light up with amusement, but he doesn’t laugh.

“ _You’ll what?_ ” Collins asks, eyes averted.

“To the tailors, you can choose something for yourself,” Collins’ expression must give away that he is internally thinking up a logical argument with which to protest, as Farrier lifts a hand to stay him. “It’s a _gift_ , you can’t refuse gifts.” Collins settles for grumbling instead of doing anything else, and Farrier lets out a laugh that startles him, though does fill him with an oddly placed sense of pride.

It gets a bit easier after that, no doubt partly due to the increasing number of drinks they’re sharing. Conversation drifts easily between subjects with little resistance, though Collins is aware that neither of them are revealing much about themselves, and it’s no surprise, not really. Farrier is a man who by design has a lot of secrets; Collins meanwhile is the same by circumstance than anything else. Collins, it turns out has a very poor knowledge of what’s going on in the news, which Farrier finds both frustrating and amusing, making a light promise to subscribe Collins to as many newspapers as he can, and force him to become more aware. Farrier meanwhile expands on his earlier statement about his clientele. _So long as they’re paying, its fine, but they are completely insane_ he states, cheeks lightly flushed, but no other sign of drunkenness evident. Collins laughs, and finds himself agreeing despite having no real idea. Then, Farrier’s eyes drift to his guitar, and Collins answers the question he knows is on his mind.

“My sister bought it for me,” Collins says, gaze faraway. “Most valuable thing I own, that.” Farrier hums, though appears deep in thought.

“I didn’t know you have a sister.” He replies, confusion passing over his expression momentarily.

“Not anymore, no,” Collins takes a long drink. “She died, five years ago now.” Farrier’s expression changes, and Collins can tell he’s rather effectively killed the mood.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Farrier says after a long silence, and he hesitates for a moment before gently resting a hand on Collins’ shoulder. Upon feeling no resistance, he gives it a soft squeeze. Collins internally screams as he finds himself somewhat comforted by the action, willing himself to flinch away or shrug the hand off. Instead, he pushes up against it.

It’s 10pm by the time the pair of them leave through the back doors of the club, sliding into the car waiting there for them. Collins finds that he’s not as nervous this time - though that may be due to the amount of alcohol in his system - and stares quite openly at Farrier, who stares right back when Collins becomes distracted by something outside. The streets are busy despite it being a weekday, and Collins idly watches the dressed-up partiers prance around on the pavement, all in varying states of intoxication, uniformed police officers trying their best to bring them under control, but proving mostly ineffective. Farrier doesn't seem to regard them with the same interest, and instead his head is craned up towards the sky, eyes focused on nothing in particular. He looks enviously peaceful.

It gets quieter as they near Collins’ building, away from the bustle and noise of the clubs and bars, and to the smoke and dust of the rest of the city. He pretends not to notice Farrier’s eyes on him again, and just stares out the window, watching the slow progression of raindrops down the window, counting the flickering streetlights they pass under. When the car pulls to a stop, he’s almost hesitant to leave, and as soon as he moves to finally do so, Farrier is already out of the car, moving around to the back and hefting his guitar out of the boot, waiting for Collins to lead him up. It’s all an echo of the first night, but Collins is too tired and too lightheaded to tell him not to. Their progression up the stairs is far slower than it had been the first night, and Farrier laughs when Collins stumbles, reaching out to steady him again, his hands lingering momentarily on Collins' hip.

They reach his door, and Farrier slides the guitar from his shoulder while Collins unlocks it with unsteady hands, eyes scanning all around them. As he passes it to the blonde, he gestures with his head down the hallway, where one of Collins’ neighbours is stood, trying to appear as though she’s not openly watching them.

“Neighbours are always the same, no matter where you go.” Farrier mutters and Collins isn’t entirely sure that he means to say it, but reacts with a small smile nonetheless.

“Thank you, for the drink,” His words are stilted, with half of him valiantly fighting to stay upright, while the rest is content to collapse onto the floor and sleep. “And for all you’re doing for me,” Farrier shrugs, noncommittal and maybe if he weren’t so tired Collins might challenge that. Instead, he allows silence to fall between them again, and watches Farrier twist his ring around on his finger. His eyes drift back up to Farrier’s face, and he notes the weariness still lingering there, finding it suddenly spurring him into action. “Go home, Farrier, get some rest.” Farrier looks at him for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip before nodding, both to himself and to Collins. He turns but stops before he starts down the stairs.

“Goodnight Ainsley.”

Collins wastes no time in hesitating or debating.

“Goodnight Thomas.” 

Farrier turns, gives him a quick smile, and disappears down the staircase.


	4. the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been so long I'm sorry! Exams and personal issues have entirely sapped my creativity. But while driving down a foggy country lane today, it was renewed, resulting in..this monster. Im back in the swing of things now, so updates will hopefully be far more frequent. 
> 
> There are big things to come!
> 
> Enjoy x
> 
> (Kudos/Comments are much appreciated)

Foster is drunk.

For the last five minutes he's been tearing into Jones, a great bear of a man who often sits at Farrier's table in the middle of Fortis. From what little information Collins had learnt on the man, he seemed to be Farrier’s head of security, keeping his protection in check. Jones had brought back the wrong drink for an already tipsy Foster who upon receiving his drink - vodka tonic, terrible, apparently - had drank the whole thing, and left the table, coming back a moment later with a bottle of whiskey and more glasses than he could hold safely. 

Collins watches the whole thing with light amusement, after having cemented himself at Farrier's table over the last two months, expressing himself accurately was no longer as nerve-wracking as it used to be. It had been difficult at first, Farrier waiting for him in his dressing room after his shows and drinking with him for half an hour or so before coaxing him out into the lights and noise of the club. Then, a month after his first gig at Fortis, he'd agreed to go out straight away after a thoroughly successful set, Farrier levelling him with a wide grin and a subtle nod, leading him out with a guiding hand on his lower back.

They were always overwhelming, those first tentative steps out into the club, trying to adjust to the noise and humidity, finding the right words to thank people sober enough to recognise him as the one who'd had them all on their feet only moments ago. And conversing with Farrier's inner circle had been a challenge, especially when the man left to work his magic on his clients, charming them senseless so that they didn't care about parting with even more of their money. There was just so little that he could get involved with, as they spoke in code when discussing business – which was frequent – and overall, he was very different to them, having grown up in entirely different world.

Then, Andre had appeared, offering his support to Collins, who was losing an argument about the English. Andre was young, having moved to London from Los Angeles, hoping to make it big and saved from a gang primed to self-destruct by Farrier. They win the argument. 

Foster puts a drink down in front of him, face schooled into his don't even try expression, even though his eyelids are dropping dangerously. 

"Come on, Scottish boy, you've hardly drunk anything." He states, leaning back in his chair, looking Collins up and down suspiciously, eyebrow raised.

It was hardly unwarranted, he was attempting to not get quite so drunk despite it being a Friday night. Two weeks ago, he'd thoroughly embarrassed himself, not noticing Andre refilling his drinks whenever his back was turned – either distracted by Farrier or Foster, later discovering that the latter had been in on the plan. He'd thrown up behind stage and Farrier had dragged him out to the car and then up the stairs to his flat. Apparently, he'd been singing some drinker's tune the entire way that Farrier refused to tell him the name of. 

Collins takes a mouthful of his whiskey, Foster's suspicious look relenting. "I’ll drink you under the table and you know it. Am just trying to save you the embarrassment." He replies, Foster laughing into his glass. 

"You don't drink people under the table. You drink and get onto the table yourself." Farrier says, making them all jump with his sudden appearance, hand on Collins' shoulder as he slides into the seat beside him. Collins internally cringes as the entire table erupts into laughter. He had also climbed onto a table and recited his drunken tune. Though this had been Farrier's idea. There were several photos and videos of the event on Foster’s phone, which would no doubt be dragged out at any given opportunity.

With Collins defeated - letting out an insult in Gaelic that only Farrier hears causing him to snort - the topic of conversation changes. He can tell they're talking business, it's almost like a different language, expressions and body language playing a huge part in it. He doesn't try to decipher it - knows it's best if he doesn't - and focuses on his drink, draining the dregs and pouring himself a second glass, Andre rocking the table in an attempt to make him spill it. 

Excluded from the conversation, he looks about the club. It's empty, closed up with them the only ones left, the bartender looking wholly unimpressed with the situation. Farrier will slip a roll of notes into his hand before they leave and the frown will instantly disappear from his face as though it had never been there. Collins previously hadn’t seen Farrier in a week, the man being entirely absent from Fortis. Foster had been gone too on one night, Andre being his escort from his flat to the club. He'd dared to ask Andre where they were and his face had contorted, clearly struggling between the desire to tell and the deeply ingrained rule that he couldn't. 

_"Troubles with a rival business, is all."_

_Collins had nodded along, leaving a minute before asking another question._

_"Will they be okay?" It seemed to catch Andre off guard, but he'd quickly recovered._

_"Yeah. They're always okay."_

He'd left it at that. 

Farrier had returned last night looking tired but alive. Collins had decided on having one drink with him alone backstage before going out into the club. Farrier had seemed all too happy about this, settling himself down against the floor beside Collins, backs against the wall. Collins had let him lead the conversation, finding himself doing most of the talking, Farrier displaying a new interest for the life he’d lived prior to moving to London.

He’d told him of his sister, who he'd had wrapped around his little finger, always his partner in crime. Of his brother, with whom he'd never been able to see quite eye to eye. He'd told him of how enthralling London had always seemed to him, a great contrast to living in amongst endless fields in the borders. How much he now wanted to return to the never-ending sky and peace he'd eventually found there. Farrier seems utterly entranced by the idea of it, his drink mostly untouched, eyes and attention on Collins solely. 

He'd told him of the father he'd never known; something in Farrier's eyes had changed at that. 

Collins notices now that the bruise is still blooming on Farrier's cheek. He'd first noticed it on the way home last night, Farrier turning his face away once he'd realised, striking up conversation to keep him distracted – not that it worked. His knuckles weren't bandaged anymore though, the healing wounds bared instead. Foster had no such injuries, though he'd not spoken to Farrier at all the night before, like an annoyed housewife. Whatever had happened however had clearly been resolved, the pair of them making jokes about things Collins didn't understand, gleefully insulting each other as they often did.

The conversation trails off again as it usually does at this time, the group of them falling into a companionable silence. Until Foster, Jones and a man whose name Collins has forgotten get into heated debate over a recent football match, Andre moving away to get involved. Farrier's fingers close around the neck of the whiskey bottle and Collins watches as he pauses, clearly fearing tearing the fresh skin on his knuckles. He comes away no worse for wear and pours himself a drink. 

"You're here late." He murmurs into his glass, eyes on Collins now. He shrugs, using it to buy time to think of an acceptable response that won't make him sound like an utter prat. 

"The free drinks," Collins replies, Farrier letting out a short laugh. "Who could refuse." Farrier's attention shifts momentarily to Foster, whose voice is raised and hands are flying about at all directions; Collins has learnt that this means he's losing an argument. 

"He seems happier." He comments, not entirely sure whether he wanted to say it or not. Farrier nods, gaze far off into the distance. Collins waits patiently, knowing a response is coming. 

"His wife is pregnant." Farrier says after a long silence, taking another mouthful of his drink. Collins looks back at Foster, who is furiously arguing his case, Andre doubled over in laughter, Jones seeming to enjoy riling Foster up further. He looks away again, feeling somewhat envious of a child that will grow up with Foster for a father. He looks at Farrier and realises he's thinking the exact same thing. 

It's Foster who ends their night, declaring that it's nearly 3 in the morning and his wife will threaten divorce if he's out any later. Collins is somewhat reluctant to leave, hovering at the door and staring down at his feet. Farrier is by the bar, speaking in a low voice to Jones whose face is contorted with concern. He catches Collins' eye, grounding him firmly in place until he finishes his conversation, crossing the room at his usual leisurely pace. 

"Fancy a walk?" Farrier asks, a small smile on his face and voice hopeful. Collins nods – unable to find it in himself to say no- and Farrier's face lights up with triumph. 

They take a car just over halfway there, driving until the streets grow quieter, no longer populated by late night stragglers returning to their homes, or students seeing how much they can damage their livers in one night of binge drinking. The car comes to a stop under a streetlight and Farrier leans forward, whispering orders to the driver that Collins doesn't strain to hear, instead pushing open his door and rounding to the back of the car. He manages to get the boot open but is unable to grab his guitar as Farrier is suddenly stood beside him, pushing it back down. 

"Leave it, they'll meet us there." He states, Collins nodding dumbly and entirely unsure of himself for a moment. Farrier pushes the boot closed and steps backwards onto the pavement, clearly amused as Collins stutters something incomprehensible and quickly joins him, cheeks flushed. 

The car peels away up the road and Collins watches it for as long as he can see it, the pair falling into silence as they walk, steps worryingly in sync. He feels as though he should speak, strike up some conversation to fill the void of silence, but finds himself unable to. Not only due to having no idea what to talk about, but also due to Farrier’s seeming content with their current arrangement. Farrier is focused mostly on him it would seem, constantly glancing away from the road ahead to looking him up and down. 

"You've never told me why you said yes," Farrier states abruptly, Collins turning to look at him for further explanation. "You didn't have to take the job." He adds and Collins nods to himself, releasing a little 'oh'. He'd never really considered turning Farrier down, it was quite literally the dream job. He got to play three gigs a week at a popular club and his rent was paid for him. If Farrier hadn't been who he was, he'd never have hesitated in the first place.

"I'd prefer to be paying my rent than living on the street." Collins replies, but it's hardly convincing, even to himself. He knows Farrier notices it, but he doesn't push. Just takes the information with a nod and a contemplative look, falling into silence again. 

"How did you meet Foster?" Collins asks, not looking up at Farrier from the damp pavement beneath their feet, not expecting a real answer. Expecting to be brushed off or the topic of conversation to be changed as Farrier does when he doesn't want to talk about something. Instead, Farrier surprises him. 

"At school," He pauses, reminiscing. "He was getting his arse handed to him by some seventeen-year-old. I thought I'd help out." Farrier chuckles and Collins finds himself helplessly intrigued by the man yet again. The subtle shows of affection for Foster always knocked him off kilter. Though Farrier had never displayed himself as the ruthless gangster Collins knew he was, the warmth in his voice just didn't seem to fit. Juxtaposing with the rest of him, against the shallow facade of charm and bravado as well as the aggression and power Collins knew he possessed. His busted knuckles had been a testament to that. 

"Did you win?" He asks, looking at Farrier briefly and watching the smile form on his face, the brunette releasing a loud laugh. His gaze returns to the road ahead and he feels somewhat disappointed upon realising they are nearing his home. 

"No, got my nose broken for my troubles. He managed to steal me some sweets as a thank you. It was something of a bonding experience though, I think." Collins finds himself laughing with Farrier, ignoring the more rational part of him that's screaming about red flags. About how Farrier must be leaving something out, how their first meeting must have been more nefarious. 

But something about that just doesn't sit right. Yes, Farrier's youth must have held more crime and dishonour than he was admitting to - his criminal record confirmed that for him - but Foster always seemed focused on keeping Farrier out of trouble. His role seemed to be as something of a personal assistant, organising his meetings and supplying entertainment. Employing and firing, making sure the monthly payments to the police went smoothly, maintaining goodwill with the other gangs. He'd learnt most of this from eavesdropping on Foster and the others, watching the way the man worked. Andre had even let slip a few details, including that Foster was the only person willing to seriously argue with Farrier, unafraid of what his response may be. 

"What are you running from, Ainsley?" Farrier asks, stopping in his tracks. Collins stops too when he realises, looking around them and seeing his building at the end of the road, the sight filling him with equal parts relief and disappointment. He's struck for a moment by the bluntness of the question and is suddenly overcome by the urge to just tell the truth, to let it all just spill out. 

"I'm no' running from anything," he says quickly, mulling over his words before meeting Farrier's eyes, filled with a confidence he didn't know he possessed. "I'm running to it. To somethin’ better." He knows the vagueness will frustrate him, but it's the best response he can manage right now. Farrier nods, eyes glazed over in contemplation. 

"I think I am too," he says quietly, so quietly Collins isn't sure he was meant to hear it. Then, after a few moments he continues. "You should come to Fortis tomorrow night. Last Saturday of the month, it'll be a good one." Farrier's voice has taken on the same shy yet hopeful inflection as it had earlier when he'd asked if he'd wanted to walk. And when their eyes meet, Collins finds he just can't say no. 

"I'll be needing a new suit, can't be wearing this all the time." He replies, humour in his voice. Farrier nods, eyes raking him up and down; Collins stands deadly still, suddenly unable to breathe properly. Farrier steps forwards and their walk continues, albeit slower than before. 

"I'll have something sent around tomorrow." he says as they're nearing Collins' building. The rest of their short walk is spent in silence, though neither of them feel an urge to break it. Farrier speeds up at the end before Collins can, hauling his guitar from the boot and holding it pointedly out of his reach, slamming the boot closed with his spare hand and turning around with a grin.

"I won't have to carry _you_ up too this time, will I?" Collins flips him off and Farrier laughs, following behind him through the doors and up to his flat. 

* * * 

Farrier wakes with a distinct pain in his back, his phone screaming at him from his bedside table, vibrating so much it seems to dance across the polished wood. His knuckles still ache somewhat when he closes his fingers around the blasted thing, bringing it to his ear only to discover that it's rang out. On discovering that it had been Foster, he decides not to call back. Foster calls him every morning, usually telling him what's going on that day or to simply call him a fuckface for something he'd done wrong. 

The latter had been the type of call he'd been receiving most often over the last week. 

Foster was comfortable with low to medium level crime. A little extortion here and there was fine, paying off the police and running drugs concerned him very little. After all, when Farrier wanted something he usually got it, so the threats he made were very rarely actually followed through on. Foster was less comfortable with violence. In an act of defence, it was entirely acceptable, but murder and torture were usually both a step too far. Farrier openly agreed with him, though was willing to concede when it became necessary.

It'd been why he'd not spoken to Farrier for a few days, and when Farrier had made the effort to phone him, he'd called him a shithead and hung up. Farrier had only known he was still on side when he got a curt message confirming that the police money had been paid early, with a bonus strapped on as a symbol of goodwill to the officers on their payroll. 

Flopping back down on the bed, he finds himself running his fingers over the new, pink skin stretched across his knuckles. He'd seen Collins eyeing it up the night before; the man tried so hard to be subtle and always failed so miserably at it. It was somewhat endearing. Will Fletcher, it turns out, could take a fair few punches before he lost consciousness. Could take even more before he started begging for his life. 

Farrier hadn't listened to his pleas, but had been merciful. Allowing him one last look at the night sky before he drew his last breath. He hadn't wanted to, but it had been necessary. 

Fletcher had suddenly, irrationally rejected the deal, and began attempting to buy off Farrier's smugglers in an attempt to expand his own power nationwide. However, Fletcher clearly hadn’t bribed them well enough. As smugglers and low-tier criminals are acutely aware of who the real top dog is, so held a great deal more fear of Farrier than Fletcher. The smugglers had taken Fletcher’s money and immediately reported back to their contacts, relaying the information back to Farrier. Fletcher was not only trying to halt his drugs trade; he’d also hired teams of thugs to trash Farrier’s most prestigious clubs. But, a deserter had gotten to Farrier before Fletcher’s men had even been properly assembled, so those that did show up were promptly escorted behind the clubs so as not to cause a scene before being beaten within in an inch of their lives. They’d been sent back to Fletcher’s own establishments in taxis as a clear warning. 

They’d found Fletcher attempting to leave London, driving him off the road and into a ditch on a dusty backroad, the man devoid of his usual upper-class smarm. He’d been driven to a safe house close to Farrier’s flat and harshly questioned while he and Foster had attempted to make contact with Fletcher’s second-in-command. It was at this point that the whistle-blower was revealed to be the exact man they were looking for - Fletcher’s younger brother, an accountant who tended to stay out of the more nefarious side of their dealings – allowing Farrier to be sure that the family company would now simply cease to be, Farrier had called his men out, leaving Fletcher alone for an hour before going to speak with him for the last time. 

Fletcher had known an unfortunate amount about the way Farrier worked, so killing him had been the only option left to them. Under other circumstances, Farrier would have simply turned him over to the police, the files of crimes the man had committed or aided in wrapped in a neat bow to make their job easier. But Fletcher had been around too long, back when Farrier was less reclusive and far more open with the criminal lifestyle he led. 

_“There’s no running from this life,” Fletcher had said, stood facing away from him, looking up at the sky above for the last time. “It’ll kill you, like your father. And if it doesn’t, you’ll wish it had.”_

Farrier had left then, stood leaning against the wall outside, a man dressed in solid black with his face obscured passing him.

The gunshot still rang in his ears.

Fletcher’s body was burnt with the house, the police on a strict note not to arrive at the scene until an hour after the first 999 call had been made. 

Farrier’s phone rings yet again, but cuts off immediately. Rolling his eyes, he forces himself up out of bed, having already laid in for far too long. He showers quickly, not much in the mood for hours of contemplation under the warm stream as he often is. Instead trading the clammy warmth of the shower for the bracing cold of the rest of his flat, catching his reflection in the mirror as he towels off his hair. Fletcher had managed to get a solid hit on him when he’d first entered the room, leaving behind a large bruise and a small cut from where his wedding ring had collided with his cheek. The bruise was mostly gone now, but the message it sent out was still the same. He’d considered covering it, but decided that would have raised more suspicions than it repressed. Besides, it was best that the public were reminded every now and then just what sort of man he was. 

He’s buttoning up his shirt - red this time, tired of the monotony of white shirts and black jackets - when the door to his flat bursts open, revealing a red-faced Foster, who is waving his phone around like some sort of weapon. 

“Answer your fucking phone, will you!” Foster growls, leaving the door open behind him. 

“Alright, mother,” Farrier retorts, doing his shirt up the rest of the way and pulling on his trousers. “What is it?” Foster stops his somewhat manic pacing, staring dumfounded at Farrier as the man levels him with an equal level of confusion. 

“He hasn’t called you yet?” Foster asks, expression changing entirely when Farrier shakes his head. “ _Shit_.” Farrier can tell he’s about to start panicking - he’s got a hand pulling at his short hair, while his other one is clenched tightly around his phone - so takes a few steps closer to him, hands raised in surrender. 

“Calm down, Foss,” Foster remains entirely unresponsive, so Farrier puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “ _James_.” Foster stills, eyes closing for a moment, coming back to himself quickly.

“Collins phoned me earlier, he was in a bad way,” Farrier’s hand drops from Foster’s shoulder, expression growing serious. “He said he needed to talk to you so I gave him your number. He sounded terrified, Tom.” Farrier grabs his phone from its position on his bed, checking feverishly through his missed calls, growing more concerned each time he refreshes it to no different result. 

“Let’s get ‘round there,” Farrier decides, pulling on his suit jacket from the previous night, Foster tight on his heels. “And try calling him again.” He suggests as they leave the lift, walking briskly out the entrance to the waiting car Foster had arrived in, urging the driver to feel free to break the speed limit as they pull away. The drive isn’t far - especially with the lack of traffic and the driver’s speed - but it seems to take years, Farrier itching to be out, to be in Collins’ flat and find him safe and unharmed. Farrier however, is no optimist, and knows that something is wrong. 

He’s not a religious man, but still prays for Collins to be alive at the very least.

Both him and Foster are opening their doors before the car has even stopped, breaking out into a run on the stairs, Foster falling behind somewhat while Farrier continues on, running on adrenaline more than anything else. Collins’ door is slightly ajar when he reaches it, so he waits for Foster to catch up, the pair approaching the flat slowly and quietly, Farrier peering around and taking three seconds to pause and listen before pushing it open the rest of the way. 

The inside of the flat is entirely trashed, the stack of books in the corner of the room knocked over and strewn, the table from the kitchen on its side and the chair broken near in half, the legs all snapped off and thrown about at different angles. Foster stays by the door, clearly agitated as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Collins’ bedroom seems mostly untouched, aside from his bed, on which torn fabric is strewn, nearly covering the entire thing. Farrier recognises it as the suit he’d had sent to Collins that morning. A noise from behind the bathroom door has him startling, standing back, fists raised and ready to fight at the sound of a bolt sliding open. His stance immediately relaxes when the door creaks open, only slightly at first, the person behind it peering around the gap before opening it fully, Farrier’s arms lowering immediately. Collins is stood shaking in the open doorway, one of his eyes black and swollen, his lip split and bleeding. As he steps tentatively out of the room, Farrier can tell from the way he’s holding one of his hands in the other that he’s broken something.

“You should see the other guy.” Collins says, smiling grimly. His eyes are red and his voice is hoarse; Farrier realises that he’s been crying. It’s now that Foster enters the room, whispering a curse when he gets his eyes on the blonde. Collins shrugs, defeated; Farrier finds his voice doesn’t work anymore. Foster takes one look at Farrier, and immediately takes control of the situation. 

“Collins, send me a list of everything you have here that’s important, the list can be as long as you want, just get it to me,” He begins, and when Collins looks as though he might protest, continues. “It’s not safe for you here, so until it is, you’ll have to stay with Farrier, safest place for you I’m afraid,” Collins takes a long moment to think, weighing up the pros and cons before nodding, Foster releasing a relived sigh. “Good, now. Farrier will take you home and get you fixed up, alright?” Collins nods and looks to Farrier, who offers a weak smile after a few moments. There’s an awkward pause, the three of them each wondering who will act first. Breaking out of his freeze, Farrier decides he will. 

“Let’s go, then?” He phrases it as a question deliberately, Collins nodding and seeming to appreciate the gesture. 

They don’t talk through the entire drive, Farrier too distracted on Collins’ hands where they rest in his lap, hissing lightly every time they turn a harsh corner. He’s stopped shaking now, but Farrier’s immediate, instinctual anger has still not abated. If anything, it has only grown worse. Watching Collins just take the hits and carry on riling him up further. Knowing that it’s his fault is no help either, knowing that had Collins said no, had he quit earlier: he wouldn’t be in this position now. Terrified and in pain, completely unable to control what was happening to him. 

Collins seems to relax somewhat once they’re locked safely into Farrier’s flat, seeming to take comfort in the distance to the ground and his correct assumption that half of the residents are on Farrier’s payroll. He sits himself somewhat awkwardly on the sofa, watching Farrier dig around drawers in the kitchen, returning victoriously with bandages and antiseptic; Collins doesn’t look overwhelmingly keen, but allows it anyways, Farrier perching himself on the coffee table in front of him. It turns out that Collins had only broken his ring finger, with the others heavily bruised. He’d hissed and cursed as Farrier had bound his fingers together, but calmed once the process was over, happily accepting the painkillers Farrier had pushed into his hands. 

“I hope you at least broke his jaw.” Farrier states as he returns to the kitchen, putting away his supplies and getting Collins a glass of water. The blonde seems to think this over quite seriously, taking a drink when Farrier returns to him before answering verbally. 

“Nose would be more likely, I think.” Collins replies with a laugh, Farrier all too happy to laugh with him. Collins starts to fidget after that, face contorted in a way that Farrier has learnt means he’s in deep thought, trying to decide on how to phrase something. He waits patiently, sitting himself at the opposite end of the sofa, not too close as to make him uncomfortable, but close enough to ensure some form of comfort and support. 

“This wasn’t an attack on you,” Collins says after his long pause, seeming utterly unimpressed by this as an explanation. “The person that attacked me, I mean, he wasn’t trying to get at you.” Farrier nods, releasing a little sigh, bracing himself for what is to come. 

“Your brother?” He tries, Collins’ head snapping so he can face him, thoroughly confused.

“How did you- “

“He showed up when we were doing your background check, we didn’t look too much into him,” Farrier pauses for a long moment. “ _Maybe we should have_.” He feels somewhat guilty, using interrogation techniques on the man like this. But he needs to know, for his own safety as well as for Collins’.

“He was a dealer, ran some trade from London to Glasgow, got himself five years for it,” he says finally, entire body filled with tension, curled and ready to snap. “He’s trying to drag me back into his little world of sleazy schemes; _really_ doesn’t like me playing your clubs.” 

“That would explain the suit.” Farrier comments, Collins nodding apologetically. 

“Aye, he thinks am _betraying the family_ by being down here,” Collins lets out a sigh, head falling to rest in his unharmed hand, fingers pulling frustratedly at his hair. “When I said no he got angry, attacked me. I hit him back and locked myself in the bathroom. He trashed the place and left.” Farrier nods, both to Collins and to himself, taking time to process the new information.

Farrier finally breaks the silence. “We _will_ go after him, Collins. But what happens to him when we find him is up to you.” Collins seems surprised by this, looking at him incredulously. 

“Thank you,” he replies finally, then adding. “How long will I stay here for?”

“Until we find him,” He can tell that Collins doesn’t like the answer all too much. “You’ll have your own room, though.” His expression brightens somewhat, eyes darting around the place.

“Bet your rent’s cheap.” He says with a snort.

“I own it,” Farrier replies, taking a moment to look around it himself. “Disgustingly modern though it may be.” Collins seems to find this amusing, laughing almost uncontrollably. 

“You make no sense to me.” He offers by way of explanation. Farrier is about to ask what he means when the door opens, revealing Foster and several other men, all weighed down with boxes of Collins’ belongings. 

Collins immediately moves to help them, and Farrier watches with a grin as he realises he can’t actually pick anything up, instead following them down to his bedroom, deciding to unpack himself there rather than assist with the transportation. Farrier pulls Foster aside once he’s left Collins to settle in his room, instructing him in a hushed voice to find Collins’ brother as quickly as possible, as well as look into the rest of his family, not too keen on any more surprises. Farrier decides not to attend Fortis that night, already knowing that Collins won’t want to be left alone, not tonight. Foster nods along, a look on his face that’s equal parts smug and proud. 

“Look at you, being all caring and – dare I say - doting.” Farrier gives him another instruction, though this one is less subtle, as he tells Foster to fuck off, pushing him out the door and closing it firmly behind him. 

After a few moments of hesitation, Farrier makes his way to Collins’ room, knocking on the open door before leaning on the doorframe. Collins is sat on the floor, surrounded by books and empty boxes, his clothes already stuffed hastily into the dresser on the far wall. He smiles in greeting, putting down the worn paperback in his hand. And whatever further questioning Farrier had planned is immediately abandoned, deciding the blonde has had more than enough for one day.

“Chinese or Indian?” He asks, Collins beaming up at him from the floor, ignoring the pain it causes his injured lip.

_He could get used to this._


End file.
